Saving the Boy
by Wonderstorm
Summary: This is a slightly different ending to Neverland and takes place in the cave right before the cave-in. Peter falls into the water, and James Hook decides against his better judgment to save his former protege. It's a psychological peek into the mind of the wicked and noble mind of Captain Hook, and the tortured spirit of Jimmy.


**A/N: This was originally written on August 30, 2013. I watched Neverland and was fascinated by the plot, so this story came as a result of that fascination. Rated K+ for blood and violence.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Peter Pan, Neverland, or any characters, actors, or logos related to this story. I believe that the rights to Peter Pan are currently owned by the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, but I could be wrong about that. Anyway, the rights belong to whoever owns them. I'm making no gold doubloons off this story.**

Saving the Boy

Before Peter could discern Hook's treachery, Hook flung the heavy metal watch as hard as he could toward Peter's head.

Peter's eyes widened in surprise before the watch hit him hard in the forehead. He fell backward limply off the cliff to the water below.

Over the twanging of bows and the metallic clashing of his pirate crew's swords, Hook heard a faint splash far below. He stared over the cliff, willing himself to see a small boy's form emerge from the opaque blackness. But Peter did not oblige his wish. Hook heard and saw nothing below.

Why should the boy continue to haunt him so? By leaving him to his watery grave, he could erase the boy from his life completely. The pirates would no longer be plagued by the magical boy whose presence made conquering the treasures of Neverland an impossible feat. The war between his boys—the Lost Boys—and his pirates would be over. Hook would never again be tortured by the image of Peter's father, which lived on so strongly in Peter. He could avenge his lost hand by letting Peter drown, or be torn apart by a crocodile.

But for some reason that he could not explain to himself, he could not condemn the boy to death. He had to keep Jenny's legacy before his eyes. He had to keep Peter alive for Peter's mother's sake, and his own sake. The boy must live on, or the last eight years of his life would all be in vain.

Against all the voices in his head screaming in protest against his poor judgment, Hook took up his own sword from where it had fallen, sheathed it, and seized Peter's sword with his remaining hand. Then he leaped off the cliff and fell to the water. The cold water shocked him, and the pain in his arm increased to a new level of excruciating pain. He swam to the surface and emerged, coughing and trying to inhale deeply through the pain. He saw Peter thrashing about in the water and swam toward him. His arm movements were clumsy, but his leg movements were quick and powerful.

When Peter saw him, he cried out and swam desperately in the opposite direction. Hook wanted to say something to calm him, but he knew that Peter would think that his rescue mission was a treacherous attempt on Peter's life. Hook had established a perfectly black reputation as a murdering pirate in Peter's eyes. There was no reason for the boy to think differently of him now.

"Stay away!" Peter howled. "Don't—"

Abruptly, the rest of Peter's words were cut off as he disappeared beneath the water.

Hook's stomach swooned in fear. "Peter!" he barked.

The boy did not answer, and there was no telltale splash of a moving body.

Hook inhaled a great gulp of air and followed Peter down.

It was nearly impossible for Hook to see anything in the frothing and cloudy water. His only clue was the bubbles that rose from below him. He followed the bubbles and barely made out Peter, struggling mightily against whatever held him. As he swam closer, he saw with a cold flood of horror that a giant crocodile had grabbed Peter from behind.

Peter must have seen Hook's shadow above him, because he reached out his hands in a desperate plea for Hook's help.

Hook shoved Peter's small blade in his mouth and kicked faster. The crocodile must have been swimming slowly, because Hook was able to overtake the animal and grab Peter's hand. For a moment, Hook was unsure what to do. He could barely see the boy through the streams of bubbles issuing from both of their mouths. And he had no free hand to attack with, as long as Peter's hand was clutched in his own. Pulling hard on Peter's arm, he drew himself close to Peter so that their faces were inches apart and wrapped his legs around the boy's waist. This way, he could at least swing a sword with his left hand.

Hook seized a handful of Peter's jacket and leaned behind Peter so that he could see where the crocodile had grabbed him. Straining his eyes through the bubbles and dust, he saw that, miraculously, only Peter's jacket was embedded in the crocodile's lower jaw. Indeed, this boy seemed destined to escape death and to live on in Neverland forever and ever. While he still used his legs to cling to Peter, Hook removed the sword from his mouth and sawed feverishly through the black fabric. The seconds stretched into hours as his lungs screamed steadily louder for air. At last, the jacket came loose, and the crocodile was left with naught but a black scrap between his teeth for a morsel.

Hook elbowed Peter upward, but Peter needed no encouragement to propel himself toward the surface. Unfortunately, Hook had underestimated the crocodile's tenacity. The creature lunged once again, and this time Hook felt his entire leg pierced with a hundred knives. His silent howl came out as an explosion of bubbles. A small voice told him that it was useless to struggle, but he thrashed anyway against the monster's hold. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to suffocate first instead of being forced to feel the crocodile ripping him to shreds. At least Peter had managed to escape. Yet why should that fact comfort him? Did he not hate the boy?

Peter was the one who had taken his Liz from him with his lies.

Peter was the young boy who refused to go to sleep at night until Hook came to his bedside to tuck him in.

Peter was the one who had renounced his loyalty to the man who had given Peter a share of everything he had, in favor of the company of barbarous Indians and a worthless pack of boys.

Peter was the only person who had ever looked at Hook as something other than a criminal or a resource to be used.

Peter was the living image of his wretched father, who had stolen Hook's precious lover away.

Peter was the one who . . . was coming back for him?

Perhaps the emptiness in Hook's lungs had caused his eyes to play tricks on him. But the small form grew larger and larger until Peter was beside him and Hook could no longer deny the boy's image in front of him.

Peter blindly groped Hook's body until he found the sword in Hook's hand. Hook let him gently tug the sword away, or maybe his fingers were just too weak to hold the hilt anymore. Peter swam behind him, and Hook vaguely perceived that Peter was attacking the crocodile. He must have successfully wounded the animal, because Hook felt the knives withdraw, and a red cloud flooded the water. How blissful the sight of that infernal creature's blood was.

The taste of iron filled his mouth. Why could he not get rid of the fiery pain in his head, or the dazzling lights before his eyes?

Then they reached the surface, and Hook gasped air into his thirsty lungs. It was odd, but although he inhaled more and more air, his lungs seemed less and less satisfied. Also, the pain in his head refused to subside. Hook could wrap his disoriented mind only around the one necessary word that would save them both.

"Fly," he croaked.

Peter obediently rose into the air. Hook assumed that Peter's flight was shaky and painfully slow because the boy was carrying a heavy passenger.

The crocodile took advantage of Peter's clumsy flight by lunging after them into the air. Peter just managed to dodge the crocodile, and the jaws of death snapped shut on empty air.

Peter flew up until he could deposit them on land.

The sound of gunshots and metal hitting metal seemed to come to Hook's ears from a long distance. When his feet touched land, his legs would not support him no matter how much he tightened them. He collapsed face first against the rocks and tried to ignore what he hoped was not a broken nose.

Hook felt a pressure on his leg, and he rolled over to see that Peter had both hands firmly pressed against a black log lying in a widening red puddle. Could that possibly be his leg? The boy's image would not come into focus even when he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. With an enormous effort, Hook pushed himself to a sitting position. He could hear Peter muttering under his breath.

"Please, please, please, please," Peter was whispering.

Hook tried to place his hand on Peter's shoulder, but his hand was too weak to reach its goal. It fell instead on top of Peter's busy hands. "Don't," he rasped. Whatever Peter was trying to do was useless. The boy surely must realize that. His leg was beyond hope of repair.

But Peter stubbornly held on to his damaged appendage. Oh, yes, Hook knew how stubborn the lad could be. Once Peter set his mind to accomplishing a task, there was no turning his attention away from that task.

Strange. His leg did not hurt so much anymore. The devils must have finally come to take him away. If death could bring an end to this pain, then even death could be viewed as less of a terror and more of a final stage.

Now his leg did not hurt at all. He drew it up to his chest and was shocked that it moved painlessly. Though it was still covered in blood, all the wounds were healed. His eyes questioned Peter, but the boy was goggling at his leg as much as Hook was.

"What magic is this? What did you do?" Hook breathed.

"I didn't—I don't know," Peter babbled breathlessly.

Hook pressed his hand against Peter's damp cheek, and he allowed himself to step outside Neverland, beyond Liz and Starkey and fairies and Indians and back to London. For just a moment, he could be sitting on Peter's bed and putting the finishing touches on a bedtime story. Peter could be leaning into him, his eyes heavy with sleep. He could tuck the covers around Peter and whisper wishes of the sweetest dreams to him. And he could return hours later to rock  
Peter to sleep once more and chase his nightmares away.

When had Peter grown into such a cunning and prudent young man? When had Neverland encouraged Peter to let go of Hook's coattails and begin to follow his own path? When had Peter's unswerving loyalty to him gone so detestably awry?

But none of these trivialities mattered as much as this latest stunning display of power from Peter. How had Peter been able to heal him? If what Peter had said earlier was true, then the power of the tree spirits could not heal him, because the tree spirits would not have allowed his body to absorb their power. That power should have killed him, as it had killed Liz. Yet Peter had been able to take the tree spirits' power and make it compatible with Hook's body, an ability that the tree spirits had been either unwilling or unable to do. This new ability of Peter's showed that the boy had power equal to or greater than the power of the tree spirits. Had Peter truly ascended beyond humanity to godhood? Surely, if Peter could learn this power, then Hook could learn it as well.

"Peter, this power of yours must be shared with the others. Teach me this magic, and together we can heal this land and rule it as the kings we were always meant to be."

Peter stared at him, and in his eyes was such a profound heartbreak that it made Hook furious. Of course Peter was no god. He wasn't even worthy of being a king. He was just a scared little boy who had found a power too great for his unenlightened knowledge. Instead of using his godlike abilities to place himself in a position of authority, he chose to serve the contemptible creatures of this land as a meek pauper. Why must Peter arrogantly dangle his magnanimous spirit over his own covetous spirit at every turn? Why did Peter have to sit there with that same despairing expression on his face, as though Hook had not impaled him with betrayal so many times before? Was Peter really so kind that he would forgive each new betrayal of his, so that Hook's latest betrayal would seem to be the first time that he had ever betrayed Peter? Hook had read the ancient stories of such a forgiving man when he was a boy. But they were nothing more than stories. No, Peter could not be that kind inside. He was just a boy who knew nothing of the pressures of adult life. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made, and Hook refused to let Peter's anguished gaze make him feel guilty for making Peter one of those sacrifices.

"I hate you," Peter whispered.

Hook could feel the boy's warm tears trickle through his fingers. No. Peter was the guilty one, not him. "I know," he whispered back.

Too late Hook reached for his sword. By the time he swung his sword around, Peter had flown high above him. From the direction of his flight, Hook judged that Peter was headed toward the orb. Hook staggered to his feet just as Starkey aimed his revolver at the high-flying boy.

"Don't! The boy is mine!" he screamed. He threw his weight against Starkey, and the succeeding gunshot left his ears ringing.

His hasty act must have worked, because Hook could see that Peter's flight remained steady.

Starkey cursed at him in his native tongue. "Why did you save that _demonio_, Hook? We could have been rid of that—how do you say— brat!— forever!"

"Nobody gets the privilege of killing him except me," Hook panted.

Starkey let a string of curses loose. "You arrogant fool! That boy will be the death of us all!"

"That boy doesn't have the backbone to kill anybody!" Hook snarled.

"He has done an excellent job of picking us off without even lifting his sword! Your obsession with him has been all that is needed to lead us to our deaths!"

Hook looked around. Yes, that cowardly imbecile was correct. The cave was fast collapsing and taking many of his pirate crew with it.

Hook glared at the speck above him that was Peter. Loathsome boy, detestable boy, self-righteous boy, kind and forgiving boy as Hook could never be. Hook hated Peter, hated his youth, hated his kindness, hated his innocence, hated his forgiving heart. But he hated himself most of all, for being the man who returned Peter's trust and love with manipulation and hate. The only way for him to bury his self-loathing was to redirect it at the boy who acted as the kindling for his burning hatred.

He screamed the name that he had once reserved only for Peter's father, the name into which he could pour all his hatred for the boy and his father.

"_Pan!"_

-The End-

**A/N: I know that Peter Pan does not have healing powers, either in the book or in Neverland, but I thought that healing powers are not so unbelievable for Peter to have. For you discerning readers, there is a brief reference to Jesus Christ in the story somewhere. Tell me what you think, please.**


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